Dead Man's Party: The Wendigo
by WitchGirl
Summary: CSI is waiting for an invitation to arrive... An anthology of one-shot horror pieces. Halloween special. THE WENDGIO: Greg learns the true meaning of hunger when he gets lost on his way to a crime scene...


Dead Man's Party

**Summary:** CSI is waiting for an invitation to arrive... A collection of three one-shot horror pieces, including "The Wendigo," "The Seventh Guest," and "The Ghost in the AV Lab." Halloween special.

_**Author's Note:**_ I'm going to try and post a new story every week. This week, Greg Sanders stars in _The Wendigo_: Greg learns the true meaning of hunger when he gets lost on his way to a crime scene...

Next week, Gil Grissom and his team star in an adaptation of _The Seventh Guest_: Grissom receives an invitation from an old acquaintance to join him at a gala at his mansion. He is told to bring along five friends, but when they arrive and realize they are the only guests, Grissom quests for the motive behind the invitation from the old toy maker.

The final installment stars David Hodges, Wendy Simms and Archie Johnson in _The Ghost in the AV Lab_: When Archie plays a prank of Hodges and Wendy, the insulted pair decide to pay him back... and stumble across some interesting history about the AV Lab in the process.

The Wendigo

_**Preface:** This story is based off of the mystical spirit of Algonquin legend. For more information, see end notes. Enjoy, and Happy Halloween!_

Greg's fingers drummed against the wheel of the car as he drove through the darkness of the deserted highway. This scene felt like it was a little too far out of Vegas to be in their jurisdiction, but Grissom had called him in for the "all-hands-on-deck" case.

He had turned off I-15 a few miles ago, as per Catherine's directions, and this new off-road desert route was growing eerie. It reminded Greg of that classic scene in b-rated horror movies in which the unsuspecting teenagers drive down an old, unused road, surrounded by spindly dead trees that look as if they could reach down and snag the car, like a fly in a spider web. Only there were no trees, because this was the desert. There was no place for spooky supernatural monsters to hide. Then again, there was no sense of direction either. Every stretch of desert was generic, and dark, and it was beginning to disorient Greg, especially as the road he drove was windy, and he was losing his sense of direction. Regardless, Catherine's directions had told him to just "follow the highway" and he would see the flashing lights of the cop cars. She said it would be impossible to miss.

Still, Greg was wondering if he had turned off at the wrong time. Maybe this hadn't been the highway Catherine had told him to follow at all. After all, he hadn't really noticed the street sign, he had just turned around when Catherine had told him to turn. Maybe he was on some sort of wild goose chase that would end in Grissom yelling at him for being late and Catherine asking, half snidely, half sincerely, why her directions weren't clear enough.

Greg sighed and glanced at his phone and kit in the passenger's seat, wondering if he could call Nick and ask for some help, as calling Catherine again would result in exasperation for the both of them. Greg's teeth came over his bottom lip as he contemplated it, and a second later as he stared at the phone, there was a loud pop and a bounce and Greg's car rolled to a halt.

He blinked, slightly dazed, confused at what exactly had just happened, but he glanced back down the winding road and saw only darkness and asphalt in his taillights. He rolled his eyes and got out of the car, moving to the front of it to run a quick diagnostic on the Denali. He kneeled down to check out the tires and noted that _both_ of them had blown, and he only had one spare tire. But it was curious for them to have both punctured, so he looked closely at the tears. The puncture in the right tire mirrored where the puncture in the left one was, which led Greg to rise to his feet and walk a few feet behind the car. He nodded in understanding, then frowned in confusion at what he had found.

A string of barbed wire was strewn across the road in a haphazard, careless manner. For some reason, his back tires had avoided being punctured, and he could replace one of the front tires, but that still left him with one flat tire. He straightened up and folded his arms as he thought for a moment, wondering where the nearest gas station would be. He turned around again to walk back to the front of the car when he noticed a dimly lit gas station about a hundred yards up the road. It had been so shielded in shadow that he hadn't noticed it until then. In fact, he was pretty sure that the flickering florescent lights that buzzed above the pumps hadn't been on when his car had rolled to a stop, or else he would have _at least_ seen it out of the corner of his eye.

The desert wind danced across his skin, rousing goose bumps, but Greg ignored them as he jogged toward the decrepit gas station. Upon closer inspection, the thing looked like a relic of the past. The pumps were rounded and a faded turquoise color underneath the maroon rust that had stealthily consumed them over years of disuse. An oil-stained piece of lined paper was stuck to one of the pumps that read "OUT OF SURVIS " in blue ink. Greg cocked an eyebrow at the atrocious butchering of the English language, but shook his head to clear his thoughts of such concerns.

"This place looks like it's been 'out of service' since 1955," Greg muttered, rubbing his chilled arms and glancing around. The gas station store was dark, and he doubted that anyone was there, but he needed a spare tire...

He weighed his options a moment and decided instead to call one of his friends and let them know what had happened. Maybe they could come out and bring another tire for him. A cockroach scurried across the rugged concrete of the station floor and squeezed under a crack in one of the pumps. Greg imagined that it was out of order because of a nest of insects hollowing it out, feeding on the gasoline and turning into mutant roaches that would, one day, take over the world.

He chuckled to himself, disappointed that no one was around to share his story with, and returned to his car, reaching into the passenger seat to pull out his phone. He opened it up and was dismayed to see that he had absolutely no signal. _No surprise,_ he thought, _this _is_ the middle of nowhere._ He threw his phone back into the seat and looked back up at the gas station.

The light in the store was on, giving off a warm yellow incandescent glow which clashed with the harsh white of the fluorescents.

Greg frowned. "OK, now that's weird."

Still, a store was a store, and if the lights were on that meant that someone should be there to help him out. So Greg crossed the street again with a sigh and tried to dispel his misgivings.

"It's just a gas station," he muttered to himself. "Get over it."

He pushed the door open and a bell jingled above his head. He glanced at the aisles where food should be but they were vacant and dusty, with only a box of Twinkies, which was sitting on its side. Greg estimated the expiration date to have been circa 1970. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and turned his head to the right to see a counter, faded and covered in stains. The floor was similarly covered in old sticky substances, some of which Greg was afraid to guess. His eyes moved upwards to see a clerk sitting behind the desk. He was middle-aged with a sagging face that suggested he had done a little too much meth in his youth.

"Hey..." Greg said slowly, because the look on the clerk's face was completely blank. "Um, listen, I blew a tire out there on the road. I was wondering if you could help me out and sell me a new one."

The clerk blinked, his jaw hanging slack as he stared at Greg as if he didn't understand the question. It was beginning to make Greg nervous. Then, he leaned back in his chair.

"Car trouble?" he asked.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "That's what I said."

"We're closed," said the clerk.

"Well, then, can I count on you to just be a good Samaritan?" Greg hinted, losing his patience.

The clerk blinked again. "We're closed," he repeated.

Greg sighed. "OK... well, can I at least use your phone so I can call my friend to pick me up?"

The clerk's eyes flickered over to the door, which Greg could only assume led to some sort of back room. The clerk's eyes flickered back again.

"It's in there, isn't it?" Greg asked. "The phone?"

"Yup," the clerk said, with a smack of his lips.

Greg nodded at the strange man. "Thanks..." he said, and made his way towards the door.

He opened it and wrinkled his nose at the rank stench that greeted his nostrils. It was dark and the walls were cool and slimy as he groped for the light switch. There was a chill in the air, as if he had stepped into a freezer, and it made him shiver and regret not bringing a coat. He quickly discovered the light switch and the weak fluorescents flickered lazily to life, illuminating a filthy back room which smelled of a mixture of all kinds of bodily fluids. Greg, who was used to such nauseating scenes at this point in his career, simply held his breath and entered the room. He saw a black phone hanging on the opposite wall, next to another door. The phone, along with the door, had smatterings of what Greg could only hope was chipping maroon paint, though why red paint would be spattered on a phone, he had no idea. He lifted the receiver to his ear. There was no dial tone. He fiddled with the holster a few times before he finally got one and he heaved a large sigh of relief. This place was really beginning to disturb him. He dialed the first number he could recall from memory. It rang a few times before he finally got an answer.

"Stokes," greeted a crackly, far away voice.

"Oh thank god," Greg sighed. "Nick, it's me, I am so desperately lost right now."

He could hear the smugness in the Texan's tone, even through the distortion of the line. "Yeah, we thought so," he said, as if this were typical of Greg. "OK, where are you right now?"

"Some ancient gas station on some creepy road," Greg replied, knowing very well that it was vague. "There was some barbed wire and my car drove over it. It punctured two of my tires, and I only have one spare."

"So let me get this straight," said Nick. "You're at a gas station on a road, with two flat tires."

Greg scowled, annoyed at the mirth in Nick's voice. "It's not funny!"

"It's a little funny," Nick said. "Come on, G, I'm gonna need something a _little_ more specific than that."

"I don't know, I don't _know_!" Greg whined, losing his patience. "All I know is, I _thought_ it was the turn off Catherine told me to take, but I'm beginning to seriously doubt that."

"When did you turn?" Nick asked.

"Um..." Greg wracked his brain for the answer.

"Did you turn off at exit 328?" Nick asked.

Greg groaned, suddenly remembering. "328?! I wrote down 382!"

Nick chuckled. "Aw, Greggo..."

"Shut up! Just come get me. Look out for the barbed wire, and bring a damn tire!"

He slammed the receiver furiously back onto the cradle, thinking about how badly Nick would tease him for this, and the next thing he knew, there was a sharp pain in his skull, and someone turned off the lights.

ooo

When he came to, the first thing he noticed was that the smell was still lingering. Rotting flesh, mixed with excrement and vomit, all assaulting his senses, and this time it was more than enough to make his stomach churn. He groaned as he sat up and leaned against a sticky wall. The second thing he noticed was that he was shivering. It had to be below zero in that room, and Greg's teeth chattered as he rubbed his arms. He blinked, his eyes striving to adjust to the dark, from the heart of which he was beginning to hear a low, impatient growl, like that of a coyote. Greg frowned, his heart rate increasing as he clenched his hands into fists and brought his knees up to his chest. He tried to ignore the pounding in his head as his stomach threatened to expel its contents. He closed his eyes, focusing on the growling, on where it could have been coming from.

There was a tiny window on the upper left wall, through which a beam of moonlight illuminated a patch of gray cement floor, but beyond that rectangle, Greg could see absolutely nothing. As his pupils grew in size, he began to make out shadows beyond the patch of light, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He listened to the blood rushing in his ears, and his own, nervous breathing, the air rushing in and out through his nostrils as his mind raced to find a way out of this trap.

The growl grew slightly louder, and footsteps echoed against the concrete floor as something moved towards Greg, who scrambled to his feet, his back flat against the wall. His breathing quickened and his eyes darted around. There was a staircase to his right with a door perched on top of it. It was the only way out and Greg knew he didn't have any time to waste. He made a dash for the stairwell and scampered up it like a caged rat. He tried the knob, but of course it was locked, and that's when the panic really began to set in.

He heard heavy, wet breathing, and more footsteps, and he dared to look downwards, into the cement room, at the patch of light. Something stepped into it, slowly, and looked around.

It wasn't an animal, as Greg had expected, or perhaps it was, but no animal that he had ever seen before. Its skin was stretched taught over its thin skeletal frame, pasty white in color with a web of blue veins. It was almost human-looking, were it not for the elongated legs and arms, and its tiny torso. The head was covered in a mass of long, matted blond hair which obscured its face as its hunched back rose and fell with its breathing. It didn't seem capable of sight, but Greg could see it's hot breath as fog in the chilled air. It seemed to be waiting for something, but what, Greg couldn't be sure. He tried to stay absolutely still. If it couldn't see him, then it would have to go by sound. When he moved, it moved. He figured that out quickly enough. So he crouched at the top of the stairs, wishing he had a gun or weapon of some kind to shoot it dead, whatever it was.

It couldn't have been human, and yet Greg couldn't figure out what else it could be. Perhaps an emaciated ape, trapped down here and fed stranded travelers for lunch. Stranded travelers...

That barbed wire in the road had been no accident. It had been a trap, and Greg had walked right into it. But why? What was this beast that he was being fed to? Greg had never seen anything like it in his life, and he'd seen a lot in his line of work. He recalled the dead "werewolf" that Archie had snuck photos of on Dr. Robbins' table, despite David's protests. If this thing ever ended up on Dr. Robbins table, Greg had no doubt that Archie would use it as proof for Big Foot's existence.

The thing moved again and Greg tensed, shaking his head to clear it of all irrelevant thoughts. He held his breath even as the beast turned and looked straight at him and he saw its face for the first time.

Its eyes were pure white, which supported Greg's theory of its blindness. It's nose was small and wrinkled up, almost like a pig. Its hair hung scraggily over its face as its dark, black tongue slipped out and licked its lips. It made a strange, desperate and raspy noise, and Greg knew that if it ever found him, he wouldn't have a chance. It sniffed, multiple times, and then moved on all fours towards the stairs.

It knew where he was.

Greg panicked and banged on the door, screaming now, because the game was over. It had found him. The beast picked up the pace, wild and hungry, bounding up the stairs towards Greg. In a last ditch effort to avoid being cornered, Greg slid his legs over the side of the stairway and leapt down, landing painfully on his feet, which sent shockwaves up to his knees and he heard something crack. But the pain was there only for an instant as the adrenaline kicked in and he heard the beast crash headlong into the door. He groped on the floor for something to use as a weapon, for _anything_, and felt a series of sticky, cylindrical objects. Some of them were pointed. Greg gathered them in his arms. There was a loud shriek and a crash as the beast landed on the floor beside him, and Greg realized that the stench intensified. It approached him as he backed up towards the wall, watching it as it carefully walked towards him on two feet, its mouth open, its sharp teeth bared, long and pointed, all of them, perfect for stripping the flesh off of bones...

Greg clung to his two weapons, both very pointed themselves and prepared himself, even as his mind was reeling with panic and he could hear his own heavy breathing. And then, the beast launched itself at him, its teeth tearing into its shoulder and Greg cried out, trying to fight back, but it overpowered him. It was stronger than him, with the jaws of a lion, and it wouldn't let go.

His arms were pinned down against his chest as he screamed in pain, the beast clawing at his skin, trying desperately to eat him whole, and he managed to thrust upward with his weapon as hard as he possibly could, aided by the adrenaline. The beast wailed and recoiled, blood and saliva dropping from its lips and into Greg's open mouth. He choked and spluttered, and then stabbed at the thing again, and a high pitched howl reverberated off of the cement walls. The animal stumbled backwards on its two feet, almost behaving like a human as it clutched at its stomach with its unnaturally long fingers. It looked up and sneered at Greg before spitting at him harshly, expelling the contents of its mouth, Greg's blood, his flesh, and Greg wiped his mouth and unintentionally swallowed. He cringed, but it was pushed swiftly from his mind as the animal lunged at him again, its mouth open in a desperate scream, which almost sounded like that of a woman.

Greg raised his weapons and struck the animal on his head, but that didn't help. It bit into his arm and Greg yelled as the agony ripped through him. The animal threw him to the floor, straddled him, and sank its teeth into the open wound on his shoulder. Tears leaked from Greg's eyes as he continued to scream, pounding the animal on the head with one of his weapons as the other rolled out of his reach. Finally, he managed to turn the weapon ninety degrees and brought it crashing down on the thing's back.

It shrieked one last time, then looked at Greg with graying eyes, which at this distance almost appeared to have pupils. They softened as they saw Greg, or that may have been him hallucinating, and then its mouth was on his, coughing blood into him and he gagged and furiously pushed the thing off of him, jumping to his feet, his shoulder pounding, his arm rapidly going numb. He panted as he saw the thing's back heave on the floor. He could see the curved ridge where the spine was, the bumps of the ribcage beneath the skin as it wheezed, gasping for breath, its dark red blood, almost black in the darkness, oozing out onto the floor.

Greg held tightly to the only weapon he had as he watched it die, spitting every so often to get the taste of blood out of his mouth. His own blood. The nausea turned his stomach and he tried to fight it. But he couldn't think about that. Not so long as that thing was still alive.

Finally, it inhaled one last, sharp, rattling breath before it went still. And a strange sensation washed over Greg that he couldn't place, but something had changed. Some great power had shifted and now, he was in control, and he wasn't cold anymore, and he was strangely... hungry.

Slowly, almost methodically, he climbed the stairs one by one, two of his tools clutched tightly in his hands. He reached the door and kicked it once. He saw a lock and placed the sharp end of one of his tools against it. He frowned at it, for the first time able to look at it for the first time, and held it out in front of his face. He ran his hands across it, feeling the smooth chalky surface... He raised it to his face and sniffed.

Bones. He had been fighting with someone else's bones.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before turning back to the door, banging at the lock. It didn't exactly give way, but he kicked the door again. Something moved. The door was old, the wood rotting, and after taking a beating from the animal earlier, and from Greg now, it was groaning under the strain.

Greg's eyes narrowed and he kicked the door again, stabbing it with one of the bones simultaneously, and it broke free of the frame, spilling light into the dank basement that made his pupils shrink, and he recoiled slightly. He was breathing heavily as his vision adjusted, and he stepped out into the light.

He was greeted by the clerk, holding a shot gun aimed at his head. Greg remained unfazed as he stared at the barrel of the gun, his shoulders rising up and down as he breathed. He recognized it as the room with the phone. Greg knew exactly where he was. The clerk watched him for a long time, and neither of them said a word. Greg waited, his mouth half open, for something to happen.

Finally, the clerk spoke. "You killed her."

Greg continued to breathe, watching the clerk with a disgusted gaze. "Yeah," he said simply.

The clerk didn't move. "No one's done that before. You killed her."

"So what was she, the Wicked Witch of the West?" Greg deadpanned.

The clerk choked up on his grip on the gun. "She was my wife."

Greg was too tired to care. "I'm going to go now, if that's alright with you."

"You can't leave," the clerk insisted. "I can't let you leave."

Greg stopped. That definitely interfered with his plans. "Why?" he almost growled.

The clerk trembled. "It's not my fault, you know. She wouldn't stop. So I locked her up. And she cried and whined and moaned, and I had to feed her. But the more she ate, the hungrier she became. The more she ate, the more strange she became, that hideous skin stretched so tightly over her bones as if she were starving, as if I wasn't taking care of her. I had to take care of her. I was all she had left. So I kept feeding her. And she kept wasting away..."

"Tragic," Greg muttered, emotionlessly, his eyes glaring at the clerk mercilessly. "Let. Me. Go."

"I don't know what this means," the clerk breathed. "If she's dead, then where did it go?"

"Where did what go?" Greg asked.

The clerk looked at him as if it were obvious. "The Wendigo."

"I don't have time for this," Greg grumbled, taking a step forward. The clerk shuffled, gripping his gun, and Greg looked up. "I am bleeding out here, man," Greg breathed. "But I'm still here. That thing down there couldn't kill me. You really think a bullet would have better luck?"

The clerk didn't speak, but he followed Greg with his gun. The younger man limped over to the door, holding onto his shoulder and taking deep breaths. His world was spinning, his mind too frazzled to dwell on the man pointing a gun at him. Besides, something told him that the clerk may have fed unwitting drivers to his wife, but that was a far more passive means of killing a person than shooting someone with a gun.

When Greg made it to the door of the gas station store, he knew that the clerk wouldn't come after him. His breath rattled in his chest, the taste of his own blood lingered in his mouth, and he felt like he would pass out any second. He clung to the doorframe to keep from falling over.

He heard the sound of an engine and looked up to see a pair of headlights coming around the bend. His eyes fell on the barbed wire in the middle of the road. With a grunt, he propelled himself forward, struggling to get to the road, in front of the barbed wire, and all the while the car grew closer. He stumbled forward clutching at his shoulder and gritting his teeth, urging himself forward. He made it in front of the barbed wire and stood up as straight as he could, raising his bloody arm and clutching his shoulder with the other. He tried to yell, but his voice was strained. He was blinded by the headlights and the car screeched. He shielded his eyes from the white light and heard a door slam and footsteps rushing towards him.

He fell to his knees.

"Jesus, Greg!" someone exclaimed out of the din. "What the hell happened to you?!"

He took his arm away from his eyes and looked up at Nick, who took a step backwards, looking horrified.

"Hospital..." Greg breathed. "I need a hospital."

"Of course!" Nick cried, nodding vigorously. "Yes, oh God, Greg... you are absolutely _covered_ in—"

"I know," Greg interrupted quickly as Nick helped him to his feet again and then to the car. "Drive back the way you came. There's barbed wire ahead." He let out a shuddering breath and winced as a sharp shot of pain bit into his shoulder. Now that he was safe, the adrenaline was dispersing, and he was really beginning to feel the pain that was ravaging his body.

"Come on, get in the car," Nick said, helping Greg into the passenger's seat and then running around the front and leaping into the driver's side. He turned the keys, visibly distraught as he put the car in reverse and did a K-turn to go back the way he came. Greg shivered in his seat, his arms wrapped around himself as he tried to focus to keep himself from slipping into shock.

"Jesus Christ," Nick muttered, his face pale as he barreled down the road. "What the fuck happened, Greggo? How did you get like this?"

"Something tried to eat me," Greg murmured, because it was the simplest explanation he could give Nick.

Nick glanced at him fervently. "_What_, Greg? What was it?"

Greg shook his head and closed his eyes. His stomach rumbled and groaned with hunger. "I... I don't know."

He looked up at Nick, his mouth salivating. He swallowed, the taste of blood still fresh on his tongue.

"Was it, like, a-a-a coyote or something?" Nick stuttered. "I mean, what _does_ that kind of damage to a person?"

"I told you, I don't _know_," Greg barked, ferociously.

Nick glanced at him again. "I'm sorry, Greg, I'm just trying to make sense of what went on here, how you got like this..."

Greg's breathing quickened, his stomach lurching. It was empty, he was starving, he had to eat something... He looked up at Nick again, and did not take his eyes away. He said nothing, his eyes roaming over Nick's body as the Texan drove frantically down the twisting road in the middle of the desert. Soon enough, Nick began to notice.

"What?"

"Nothing," Greg said quickly, his breathing slowing, his blood clotting.

"Are you going to pass out on me?" Nick asked. "Because that's fine if you do. I'll get you to a hospital as fast as I can. Just... try and stop the bleeding, OK? Hang in there, would ya, Greggo?"

Greg dropped his gaze and winced at the sharp pains in his stomach. He pulled his hand away from his battered shoulder and stared at his palm, covered in crimson. He put his fingers to his lips and let his tongue slide along the fingers, licking up that metallic taste, the taste of himself, slightly satiating his whirling storm of a stomach.

But it wasn't enough.

He looked up at Nick again.

The Texan drummed his fingers against the wheel, just as Greg had done when driving in the opposite direction not hours ago. That life seemed very far away now, decades, centuries, eons even. He wasn't the same, carefree CSI he had been then. He wasn't the type of guy now, who would get lost even with detailed directions, or who would get playfully teased by his friends when he made a mistake, or who would allow himself to be eaten by a monster he didn't even understand.

Greg's eyes rolled down Nick's side, an idea blossoming in his mind.

"You still with me, Greggo?" Nick asked, the anxiety saturating his voice, sending it to soaring pitches.

"Mm," Greg intoned in reply, and then smiled, his tone deepening to almost a growl. "Mm..."

This earned him a glance from the driver. "Are you OK, man?"

Greg said nothing as the hunger grew, this voracious force inside of him, egging him onward, telling him to do it, quickly, telling him he needed it, he wouldn't survive without it, whispering threats of starvation, of solitude, of death...

And if Greg was a slave to anything, it was to survival.

He was a whole other animal now...

"Greg, is it just me or did it get _really_ cold in here?" Nick reached over to turn up the heat as he shivered. Greg unbuckled his seatbelt, his wounds now forgotten, his entire body numb with the exception of his angry, howling stomach. His heartbeat quickened. His mind went blank. Primal instincts overtook him and he pounced, making the car swerve off the side of the road and out into the empty desert as Nick's baffled, terrified screams filled the air, and Greg feasted on his flesh, his arm, biting down on the fingers as they crunched beneath his teeth and Nick was shrieking, like a trapped animal. Even as Greg swallowed, even a bits of skin snagged in his teeth and sinew wriggled down his throat like worms, it was if he hadn't even begun to eat. His stomach cried for more, his stomach claimed it was going unfed, and like a parasite he continued to rip the skin off of his friend, and even as the older man struggled, fought to overpower him, he was too strong for Nick now, the Wendigo had him, it had made its home deep inside his bones, and it ate and ate and ate, and so long as it was inside of him, Greg would never be satiated, he would never be satisfied, he would never know rest.

Long after his friend had passed out from the pain, the beast continued to eat, furiously, quickly, desperately, until there was nothing left, nothing but the largest bones, anything the beast couldn't swallow, and when it was over, the animal fell back on its haunches, looked down at its prey with apathy, and sniffed the air for another body to feed its insatiable appetite.

**THE END**

**_End Notes: About the Wendigo:_**_ The Wendigo of Algonquin mythology is a restless, cannibalistic spirit, said to inhabit the souls of famine victims who have turned on their own and consumed human flesh in desperation. It was a warning that cannibalism was never acceptable in any situation, and suicide was always preferable than eating another human being. It was said that the more a Wendigo eats, the more it wastes away and the hungrier it becomes, which is why it is both emaciated and yet constantly eating. In some legends, the Wendigo grows proportionate to the amount it eats, so it never has enough food in its stomach. Wendigo Psychosis is a culture-bound disorder which can afflict some Native Americans, and involves a powerful craving for human flesh._**  
**


End file.
